Lodged
by agrajagthetesty
Summary: Unlike his harsh, persistent coughs, which tore at his throat and his chest and some other place deep inside him that he couldn’t even name, all the bullet caused as it emerged from the pale unresisting skin of his stomach was a sickening red wetness.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

_The bullet, he thinks, was probably never really intended to hit him in the first place. However, it had done an excellent job of doing just that, piercing his back just about level with his navel, and slightly to the left. Oddly, it had caused no pain as it ripped cleanly through his stomach- unlike his harsh, persistent coughs, which tore at his throat and his chest and some other place deep inside him that he couldn't even name, all the bullet did as it emerged from the pale unresisting skin at the front of his body and drove into the casing of the machine in front of him was to cause a strange coldness to spread out from his stomach and through his limbs, along with a sickening red wetness._

_His vision drained away in uneven patches and the floor swam blearily upwards to meet him. It was warm, heated by the flames of the rocket, and he felt strangely comfortable as he lay there, lazily watching the product of all his years of work disappear through the blinding portal while light disappeared from his sight. Eventually sound faded too, and he was floating dreamily in a dark dense sea, almost- but not quite- unaware of the chaos around him._

_He is uncertain now, but he almost thinks that he felt two warm arms holding him tightly, and a quiet voice sobbing dryly into his ear as he lay there. If he did, it didn't bother him much. He lay still and calm, feeling pleasantly sleepy and vacant._

_Later, he would wonder whether, just for a second, he died while he was lying there._

_He felt a touch, this time on his shoulder, and he lost contact with the floor once again. Confused, he moved, although it was almost too much effort, and opened his eyes a fraction._

_He caught sight of a young astonished face with wide eyes and slack jaw and brimming tears-_

_- before it was snatched away from view, to be replaced with a blindingly white light punctuated with writhing black tentacles._

_

* * *

_

_He opened his eyes, and he was in a cool white room that beeped at regular intervals, with bandages binding him together so tightly that he could barely breathe. Opening his eyes he saw that the room was large and filled with white starched beds- like the one he was lying in, he realized- all of which were empty. There were white curtains hanging from railings that dissected the room into eight neat squares, but the curtains were drawn and hung in perfect concertina folds. There was a small square cabinet beside him, with a glass of water and a small bouquet of flowers on it. And there was a clear plastic tube extending down from somewhere above his head, eventually becoming a needle, which was lodged deeply beneath the skin of his forearm, and which hurt him when he moved his fingers._

_The light was sharp and intense, and he had to close his eyes after a short time. It didn't matter. He had already seen all that he needed to- all that was necessary to show him that indeed, he was alive and in surprisingly good health considering the circumstances, and, it appeared, in a hospital._

_He felt better able to sleep, now that he knew that much._

Author's notes: Ok. This story was commissioned by Don't Make Me Blue, who came up with a very interesting idea requiring a lot more thought and experimentation than most of my fics. As such, this story will be a long one. As of yet, I have no idea how long it will end up being, but suffice to say there will be a number of chapters to come. I know it's kind of evil for me to put up the prologue (which seems like more of a teaser to me) directly before leaving on holiday, but that's how life works sometimes. It will be between one and two weeks until the next chapter is up.

I hope you like it so far! It's a very interesting concept to work with, and to be honest it's well out of my comfort zone, but I've tried hard with it.


	2. Nurse's Orders

**Nurse's Orders**

It has been a while since Den's leg was last checked up on, so it shouldn't have surprised Winry to find the prosthetic is no longer at its best. However, she can barely hold back a gasp as she lifts the front plate away to discover that the plastic coating on some of the wires has melted in places, especially around the joints, and that where it has, patches of parasitic rust have appeared on the metal.

She winces in sympathy. No wonder her dog has been slower and grumpier than usual lately. Immediately, she makes a mental note to begin working towards a more energy efficient design, to reduce the amount of excess heat produced with movement, and to prevent this from happening again. She also needs to check on the casing, she realises, lifting Den's paw to examine the underside of the limb, and find where the water has been getting in. For now, she takes a pair of wire clippers and carefully snips the damaged wires out of the circuits to replace them with fresh ones.

"Sorry, Den," Winry says as she twists the fine metal strands together, and she _is_ sorry. It is not like her to make mistakes like this in her work, she knows, and she feels ashamed of herself even as she works to fix the problem. This sort of thing has been happening more and more frequently during the last few weeks, and she often catches herself sitting at her workbench with a piece of automail in front of her and an empty head on her shoulders, staring uselessly off into the distance. She hates herself for it (she hates the mere _word_) but she has been dreadfully distracted.

Having finished patching up Den's leg as best she can, she pats the dog's head, gets up, and gathers the numerous plates, coffee mugs and pieces of cutlery, lying abandoned all around the room, onto the metal tray that she usually uses to lay out her tools. "I'll be right back," she tells Den, and then opens the door, picks up the tray, and leaves the room.

On her way to the kitchen she hears the doorbell ring faintly from the front of the house. Glancing at the clock as she hurries through the hall to answer it, she tries to work out who could be calling on her. She has no appointments arranged for this time, and her friends almost invariably telephone her in advance and arrange a meeting when they want to see her, rather than unexpectedly coming to her house.

Balancing the tray on her hip with one hand, Winry opens the door.

She can only stand and stare, slack-jawed, as the whole tray- plates, cups, nigh innumerable pieces of cutlery and all- comes tumbling out of her hands.

* * *

She stands motionless as he, apologising fervently, picks up the broken glass and pieces of china around her feet.

"Um," he says by way of a greeting. "Sorry to bother you, I'm. . ."

"Al," she whispers before she can stop herself.

He blinks, startled, and stares at her. "What?"

_No_, her mind says quietly, but with a terrible certainty. _No, it isn't. It isn't at all._

"I'm sorry," she stutters, hastily kneeling to help pick up the broken crockery. "I'm sorry, of course not. Not. . . What is your name?"

"It's Alfons," he says, gazing confusedly at her as she scoops shards of china onto the tray with both her hands. "Alfons Heidrich."

"I. . . I see. . ."

He sighs, a harsh sound that grates in this throat, and turns away, rubbing the back of his neck with agitation- _just like Al_, she thinks helplessly, _Al does that_. "I'm sorry, I don't really know what I'm doing here-"

This, at least, manages to penetrate her daze. "No!" she says, leaping to her feet, tray in her hands. "That's alright. Here, come in."

He hesitates visibly. "Really? You don't have to. . ."

"Not at all," she says, as firmly as she can. "Come in."

He follows her cautiously inside, looking as though something terrifying could leap out at him any minute. She glances curiously over her shoulder as she takes him through into the living room, and almost stops in her tracks as she catches sight of his face again.

He stops. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Quite sure," she says, even though she isn't, and it is becoming more difficult every minute. _It doesn't matter,_ she tells herself. _Damn it, I have to be polite._

"You must want a drink," she says numbly once he is seated.

"That's alright," he says, shuffling awkwardly on the edge of the sofa. "I don't want to trouble you- any more than I already have."

"It's no trouble," she hazily insists.

Looking up at her then, he instantly regrets coming here. He has no idea why- has no idea what's going on at all- but he can see that looking at him is almost too difficult for this girl.

She smiles forcedly at him, and turns, disappearing into the kitchen and leaving him sitting helplessly on the sofa.

Groaning, Alfons leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, running his hands through his hair. Each passing second only serves to convince him still further that he should not have come. For a moment he almost considers leaving now, while she is busy with whatever she is doing. Perhaps he can find a hotel somewhere-

But he already knows that this is ridiculous. Wherever he is, it is clear that this region of the country is very rural. The chances of finding a hotel within fifty kilometres, he knows, are next to zero. He has no other option than to stay, and to pray that this strange girl can help him somehow.

_Selfish,_ he tells himself. It could not be more obvious that his presence is upsetting her. He ought to go, at once.

* * *

_His nurse was a small round woman, younger than he had expected, with dark cropped hair and a pressed white uniform. Her fingers were light and wonderfully cool when they were pushing back his hair and fluttering over his forehead to take a temperature, but they became vicious tools of sharp stabbing malice when they were pulling up his shirt and probing relentlessly around the raw red area beneath his bandages- although the pain was dormant most of the __time, it was a constant presence, and it became angry as hell whenever anything was done to provoke it._

_His ability to speak came back to him in trickles and spurts. The first thing he said to her, winced out from within a throat that had never grated so much against his breaths, or pained him so much at every swallow, was a quiet soft thank you. She had patted his blankets down and told him not to be silly._

_By the time his words came comfortably, he had a number of more pressing and complicated things to say. The first one was a question. As was the second. As well as a multitude of others that followed._

"_Calm down now," the nurse said, placing a hand upon his forehead and effectively silencing him with a touch. "There's no rush. You're not going anywhere fast, after all._

"_Besides," she continued, chuckling slightly, "I ought to be the one questioning you. You're the one who was discovered shot and bleeding on a country road without any semblance of identification on you."_

"_A . . . country road?" was all he could think to say._

"_Don't worry," she said kindly. "I won't be asking you all those questions. It's not my job to be curious." She smiled reassuringly at him, evidently taking his stunned silence as relief._

_Glancing down at the clipboard she held, she frowned slightly. "But I won't get into trouble for asking you about this. Why ever would you not get treatment for your lung condition sooner? It was serious, and quite advanced. Why didn't you go to a doctor about it?"_

"_I did," he said defensively- it was hardly as though he hadn't understood the seriousness of his disease. "But the doctors told me there wasn't much they could do."_

_He had never seen his nurse look shocked before, and now that he was, he wasn't sure that he liked it. Her mouth was open in an elongated O and she blinked once, before quickly rearranging her expression into something that looked a little less like a goldfish and a little more like a hound with stomach ache._

"_Was that _this_ hospital?" _

"_No, it was the one in Munich . . . my home city," he said. They had had that conversation earlier, in small bursts of speech- talking had still been painful, then. The nurse had not ever heard of Munich, which wasn't encouraging. Wherever he had ended up, it had to be far from where he lived. The nurse had in fact told him the name of this city, but it had been strange and had meant nothing to him._

_The nurse, despite having never heard of it up until recently, appeared to be fast forming very strong opinions about Munich. "That's terrible!" she spluttered, barely containing her outrage. "To think that someone would . . . that's awful!"_

_Alfons tried to bolt upright in excitement, but the pain caught him and he got stuck half-way. "You're not saying that . . . you're able to do something about it?"_

"_Able to?" she snorted. "We already have done. Didn't you realise you weren't coughing so much any more?"_

_He hadn't, being more concerned about the open hole in his stomach._

"_I don't think much of those doctors at your last hospital," the nurse said, taking advantage of his silence to let loose a small stream of professional ranting.__ "They must either be ridiculously lazy, hopelessly under-funded, or painfully behind the times."_

"_Does this mean it's been cured?" he said, hardly daring to believe it._

_The nurse stopped muttering and sighed. "Hardly, I'm afraid. You'll still have the condition, and you'll suffer with it unless you take medicine daily. It also seems like the amount of time that you put up with it before we could treat you as taken years off your life."_

_He winced. The doctors in Munich may have been "either ridiculously lazy, hopelessly under-funded, or painfully behind the times", but at least they did not deliver bad news in a manner that could strip skin clean away._

"_However," she said, and inexplicably s__he sounded a lot gentler now, "We're almost certain you'll live long enough to see a grandchild or two."_

_Not such bad news, then._

"_. . . I don't understand," he said eventually._

_The nurse scoffed. "Me neither. I don't see how those so-called doctors of yours could have just-"_

"_Not that," he said quietly. "I was in a factory when I was shot. How did I come to be found on a country road?"_

_The nurse blinked. "I suppose someone could have brought you there."_

"_Why though?" he said. "I mean, why there? If they were trying to help me, they would have brought me to a hospital, wouldn't they? And if they thought I was dead and were getting rid of my body, wouldn't they have tried to hide it a little better?"_

_She sighed. "I don't know, kid. I have no idea."_

_There was a short silence between them then, as they both came to realise how very little either of them knew._

"_I need to ask you-" Alfons began, at the same time as the nurse saying, "Do you think you could tell me-"_

_They looked at each other._

"_Go on," she said finally._

"_What's the name of this country?" he said, somewhat embarrassed at having to ask such a foolish question. "I mean, if you haven't heard of Munich we can't be in Germany, so-"_

"_Germany?" the nurse said in surprise. "No, we're not.__ We're in Amestris._

"_Is that__ . . . somewhere in America?"_

_Another short pause._

"_No," said the nurse._

"_I can't remember how I got here," he said wonderingly. "Not at all. Just the bullet, and then that strange hallucination, and then this." He sighed. It was odd, but not knowing where he was made him feel both isolated and __enclosed at the same time. "I wonder what happened to Edward," he said thoughtfully, no real worry in his voice. He had seen his friend travel safely through the portal. Edward was bound to be alright._

"_Edward who?" the nurse asked, more out of politeness than anything else._

"_My friend- Edward Elric," he said._

_If the nurse reacted to the name, he didn't see her. He was lost in contemplation._

_Eventually, he sighed, and looked up at her. "What was it you wanted to say earlier?"_

"_I was just about to ask," the nurse said, looking strangely at him. "What's your name?"_

_He couldn't help but react in surprise. He had not realised that she didn't know. Yes, he had not had any identification on him when he was found, and yes, she had been calling him "young man" or "kid" the whole time, but he had simply assumed that was her own unique version of a bedside manner. It had never occurred to him that she __might not know his name. "I'm Alfons," he said, still feeling a little taken aback._

_The feeling swelled and grew at her reaction, and Alfons found himself feeling considerably taken aback as the nurse's jaw dropped for the second time that day, and she- once again- looked outraged. "_Alphonse_?! What do you think you're _doing_?!"_

_Alfons, who would have expected almost anything before that, flinched. "I'm sorry?"_

_But the nurse was storming out of the room, leaving him alone, startled, and hopelessly confused. He struggled against his enormous pillows, trying his best to sit up, but eventually had to admit defeat._

"_What-" he began as the nurse came back in._

"_It _is_ you!" she said angrily. "I wondered whether . . . It was stupid of them to use an old picture, I almost didn't recognise you." She brandished what appeared to be a newspaper in his face, but before he could see it properly she had whipped it away again. "Honestly, what were you thinking? It's not as though you're in trouble or anything. If you'd told me what happened, I could have helped you."_

_He stared at her in bewilderment. "But I really don't know-"_

"_It's your decision," she said, clearly determined not to listen to him, "but you ought to go back to Risembool as soon as you can. That Rockbell girl would want to see you."_

"_Who?"_

"_Now you're just being ridiculous," she snapped, flinging the newspaper down. "Even I know about her and you two, and I live all the way out here. Go to Risembool and talk to Miss Rockbell."_

_And with that, she turned spectacularly on her heel and stalked out._

_Suddenly, Alfons longed for the soft, sweetly-spoken nurses back in Munich._

_At a loss, he reached for the newspaper __she had tossed down beside him, which now lay spilling its inner pages over his bedside cabinet. He took a moment to sort them into order, and straightened the crumpled sheets of paper._

_Lifting __the newspaper, he realised that it was probably several weeks old, at least. However, all rational thoughts left his head once he caught sight of the front page._

_There were two photographs, one beside the other, beneath a bold headline. The first was of Edward (looking as though he had been half-way through a sentence and entirely unaware of the photographer's presence), which in itself was strange, seeing as how the only person he had had any sort of conversation with in this strange country had not even heard of Germany. Edward was a character, certainly, but Alfons was equally certain that he was not enough of one to merit being on the front page of a foreign newspaper._

_The second photograph made his stomach turn over and his breath jar painfully in his throat, because for a second he thought, _me_. It was a face just like his own, but years younger and rather rounder, with darker hair and wider eyes and a long whiplash ponytail and __oh my god_--

_It was the face he had seen__ in what he had assumed was a vision, after being shot._

_Sitting there stunned, with an old crumpled newspaper dangling limply from his hands, Alfons decided that maybe at this point it would be wise to follow his nurse's orders._

Author's notes: I am impressed by how long this is. Even though it took me ages and I'm not too happy with the writing, I'm pleased to have this much content in a story. (I normally write oneshots.) Hopefully this chapter will answer a few questions and give you a little more idea as to how the overall story will go.

I'm going away for two weeks, but I hope to write a lot during that time. I aim to have the next chapter finished and ready to submit by the time I get back.


	3. Over Coffee

**Over Coffee**

Alfons fidgets, and wishes that the girl had not brought him coffee. For one thing, it is far too hot and burns his lips- but he feels obliged to drink it now that she has made it- and for another, it is rich and dark and so strong he almost chokes. Mostly, however, it is because ever since she handed him his mug of the scalding bitter drink, she has been looking at him in a way that makes him feel immensely ill at ease.

He blows gently on the steaming surface of the coffee and takes a hesitant sip, conscious all the while of her sharp blue eyes following his every movement.

"I'm sorry to have to disturb you," he says for what feels like the millionth time, "but I didn't know where else I should go. Something . . . something very strange has happened."

Her head tilts almost imperceptibly to one side.

"I . . . was shot," he says, and it is the first time he has said it out loud: the words feel strange in his mouth, and even he finds it hard to believe. Hastily, he tries his best, in his confused state, to explain. "Our sponsors were there, and a lot of soldiers, and some other people too. They were giving us money to build the rocket, but Edward told me not to work for them. Then it got finished, and they were going to use it- but Edward came through the window- and the dragon! There was a dragon- and Edward's father!"

Disjointed scenes flood his mind all at once; he becomes breathless; the wound in his stomach pains him for the first time in a while.

"They shot him- Edward, I mean, not his father- but the dragon killed his father, I think, there was a lot of blood- and Edward fell, but he was alright. And I found him and I put him in the rocket- and _Noah_ was there," he says in disbelief, "she was crying and screaming, but he couldn't stop. I made sure of that," he says proudly.

His speech over, the images flashing through his mind gone, he looks up.

The girl is sitting hunched, one fist at her mouth, her eyes shut as tightly as she can- but tears are squeezing out of them nonetheless.

His mouth drops open. "Miss Rockbell!"

She looks up for a second, but almost instantly turns her face away again, her shoulders shaking with tiny, irregular movements.

Alfons has no idea what to do. He sits horrified, gaping at her as she cries, his brain refusing to supply him with an appropriate response to the situation. He knows that sitting there motionless is definitely not helping her- but there is nothing else he can do. Attempting to comfort her would certainly be inappropriate as well- _and what in the world am I supposed to do when this has never happened to me before?_

"It's so rude," she says finally, her voice muffled by her hand which she keeps pressed to her lips, "but I can't help it. You . . . you've suffered a lot. I should be sympathetic. I should be kind. But I can't help it."

Bewildered, he says nothing.

"When I look at you, I think of someone else," she admits, looking down at her hands which now rest, clasped, in her lap. "It's not just your face, either. It's your voice, your mannerisms, the way you move. I'm sorry. It's very rude."

He is silent. Once again, he has no idea how to react.

"So," she says, wiping her eyes briskly with the back of her hand, in a ridiculous attempt to appear cheerful, "what were you saying? Your friend—Edward. . ."

"Elric," he says.

She blinks, stunned. "I'm sorry?"

"Elric. Edward Elric. He was my friend, and he . . . He's in the newspaper," he says, remembering.

And from his pocket he produces the article, which he took from the newspaper the nurse showed him in the hospital. "It says he's missing," he says in surprise, noticing the first paragraph on the page.

The shift in the mood in instantaneous and tangible: Alfons can almost see frost begin to crawl across the window pane as the girl's expression becomes cold and hard.

"Ridiculous," she says, and he is startled by the venom in her voice. "Ridiculous. He didn't disappear; I know exactly where he is. It's just too difficult for them to accept- or to understand."

"You know about him?" Alfons says, taken aback.

The girl glares up at him. "Well, of course I know about him! Everyone knows _about_ him. I also happen to _know_ him, though. We've known each other all our lives, almost."

"Everyone knows about him?" he repeats helplessly. _How is it possible that one eccentric can be so illustrious?_

"The famous Fullmetal Alchemist," the girl says. "I'd say most people have heard of him."

There is a long, long silence.

"When I knew him," Alfons says slowly, "he was always talking about another world, where he used to live, where he went on journeys through strange places, where alchemy was possible. They were great stories. So imaginative. . ."

They stare at each other.

"He _did_ vanish," she tells the floor after a while. "A few years ago. That was- He actually _vanished_. Nobody knew where he went. I wasn't there, Al lost all his memories, and Rose . . . she said that he _died_. She said that he died, but that he came back and Al disappeared- and that she didn't see the rest. She actually told me . . . I mean, that's mad. People can't come back from the dead, we all know that. So . . . She wasn't in her right mind at the time, though. She can't remember very well. So nobody knows. He was just gone. They didn't find a body, and . . . none of us thought he was dead.

"And then . . . when was it . . . about two months ago, I think . . . _that_ happened. He came back. Crash-landed."

She stops, and looks up at him. He understands instantly what she wants.

"I met him in Munich, where I live," he says softly. "We were working on the same project. He never seemed happy, somehow, always talking about this other world, and in the end I decided. If this world existed, I wanted him to go back. So I used the rocket and sent him through the portal. That was when they shot me."

She looks up at him with wide shocked eyes. "Did you know they would shoot you?"

"I knew they had guns," he says after a pause, "and I knew they wouldn't be happy about me interfering- least of all saving Edward."

She puts her hand over her mouth.

"But I wanted to do something. I wanted to help him, and I wanted to make a difference. Change the world, even just a little. And I was desperate."

"Oh," she says.

"So . . . he got back?" Alfons says, and all the strain and confusion seem to fall from his face as he says it- he appears elated despite his weariness, and he can't help but be thrilled. He has finally made a mark on the world.

The girl appears uncomfortable. She avoids his gaze as she replies. "He did. He did, but . . ." and she screws her face up, hating it, hating to tell him, "he didn't stay. He went back through the portal again."

He opens his mouth, but says nothing.

"I don't know. . . Mr Mustang told me he had to. To protect this world. He went to destroy the portal, because he had to."

It is clear from her expression that she finds it difficult even to talk about this Mr Mustang.

"But . . ." Alfons says.

She moves suddenly, snatches the sheet of paper from out of his hand. She unfolds it swiftly and smoothes it over her knees. "Did Ed ever tell you about his family?" she says, still looking intently at the page in her hands.

Alfons, once again startled by her twists and turns of emotion, takes a while to respond. "I . . . yes. He did, a little."

And she hands him back the article. "Did you see that?" she asks him, pointing with one slim finger at the second photograph- of the round young face he saw after being shot.

His heart is beating so hard that he can feel it struggling against his ribs. He nods.

"That's Al," she says, gazing at him with her eyes full of tears. "Alphonse. Ed's brother. He went with him, that time. They both went through the portal into the other- into _your_ world."

And everything falls into place in his mind.

"I saw him," he says simply. "I saw Alphonse, in Munich, after I was shot. He was crying. But I only saw him for a moment, before-"

"You must have gone through the portal," she says.

It is the only explanation that makes sense, and they have both reached it separately, long ago- but she is the first to voice it. For a second he thinks wildly of his and Edward's apartment- _Edward can't pay the rent, what's he going to do?_ - and of the library books he has rented and which now will never be returned.

"They won't get them back," he says numbly.

She leans towards him, reaching out so that her hands almost touch him, and hover trembling a few centimetres away from his own.

He realises that his coffee has gone cold.

"I can't go back." It is not a question, not a confirmation, merely a statement of solid fact.

"They destroyed the portal."

". . . I don't understand," he says quietly.

She lowers her gaze.

He sighs, turns away, puts his cold mug on the table to one side; and she does not look up, continuing to stare frowning at the floor, deep in thought.

Then she speaks. "You were brought here at the same time as Al crossing over to your world, weren't you?"

Alfons nods. Then he realises that she isn't looking at him, so he says, "Yes."

"In alchemy," she says, thinking out loud, straining to recall all that she knows on the subject, "there's a law called Equivalent Exchange. I think . . . it works like a trade, a swap. You give up something and you get something. Maybe this is like that."

He blinks at her.

"I can't do alchemy," she hastens to tell him. "I haven't studied it, this is all stuff I've picked up. But from what I do know, I just don't think it would make sense for Al to go through that thing and for you to be left there. I mean . . ." She grits her teeth in confusion. "You two. You're the same. That is, you look . . ."

"I know," he says.

"So . . . so if there were two of you. In one world. That would be . . . it would go against the laws. I think. I'm sure Ed would say so," she finishes, in a final attempt to make sense of it all.

"You mean we swapped places," he says.

"Maybe. . ."

Then, wide-eyed, she looks up at him. "I mean, I don't know! I'm guessing! I'm probably wrong, so don't think this is . . ."

"You know more than I do."

"Oh," she says, staring stricken at him. "Oh, we'll never work this out."

He laughs.

There is a short silence. She drinks the rest of her coffee.

"Um, Miss Rockbell-"

She glances sharply over at him. "What? After all this talk and everything we've told each other, do you really think it's not okay to call me Winry?"

He blinks, momentarily lost for words, and then coughs as he attempts to organise his thoughts. "Well. . . Winry. Thank you for everything. You've been really helpful.

". . .I'm sorry for disturbing you." And he stands, hesitates, then holds out his hand.

She gets up, surprised. "You're going? Where to?"

"Um. . ."

"Do you have a place to stay?"

"I was thinking about getting a room in a hotel."

"There aren't any near here."

"I could get a train."

"Do you have any money?"

"I've got some, but it might not be enough. . ."

"Is it even the same currency?"

He stares at her, open wallet in hand. He didn't think of that.

"I'm not letting you leave," she says firmly. "It would be wrong. You can't deal with all this on your own right now. You can stay here tonight."

He starts, his face bright red. "Wh- What? I can't! I've intruded enough as it is-"

"You're not intruding. In fact, I _want_ you to."

"I . . . I shouldn't. I mean, you don't need to help me any more. I'll be alright on my own. I'll figure something out. Really."

* * *

_Author's notes: I'm sorry this is so hideously late! ;-; -clubs herself to death with a blunt instrument- X-X __I really really hope there won't be such a long wait until the next chapter, as I've got some of it written already._

_. . . I'm sorry!! -crawls under a rock and hides-_


	4. An Apology from the Author

_I'm sorry, everyone, but I'm going to have to end this one here- for now, at least. I hate having to give up on stories, but I think here it might be necessary, for a number of reasons:_

_This story is not an easy one to write. The main character is one I've never written before, who has no canon backstory, minimal characterisation, and who I'm not even sure that I like. The pairing is nothing short of crazy, the situation is completely bizarre, and... well... there are just SO MANY ISSUES that I really don't want to have to deal with right now. _

Also, I wrote this story by request. And the person who requested it didn't even review the last chapter. That isn't meant to be a complaint- I know we all have lives- but I'm sure you understand that it's not very encouraging to have that happen. And because the story was written on request, I don't want it to be any longer than it has to be. It's not that I don't like writing requests. It's just that the idea for this particular story happens to be IMMENSELY complicated. It's not one of those plots that just work out naturally without any effort from the author. It is, in fact, very very difficult to write.

I could probably put up with the problems I have writing Alfons, if the plot itself was simple. I could probably work around the complications with the plot, if I felt comfortable writing Alfons. It is, I believe, the combination of the two issues that makes this story so impossible. And to top it all, I have some rather important exams to take this year, and the thought that there are unfinished stories I ought to be working on as well has been affecting my concentration. 

_So I apologise. I hate letting people down, I really do. But I genuinely can't carry on like this. I've been trying my best, but I don't think I have the stamina for something like this right now. Maybe one day I'll get hit with inspiration again, and the chapters will be churning out. But for now, I'm going to have to call it a day._

_Sorry. :(_

_-agrajag_


	5. Chalk

**Chalk**

A number of uncomfortable things conspire to wake Alfons that morning. The first is the sun, which shines brightly and determinedly into his face through a gap in the curtains. The second is his bandages, which have somehow managed to become undone during the night and which now sprawl across the mattress and over the floor like an especially crazy Italian pasta. They have also managed to form an enormous convoluted knot, which sticks into the middle of his spine with a sick sort of enthusiasm. The third uncomfortable thing is the sudden lurching realisation that despite all his protests, he did in fact end up spending the night at Miss Rockbell's house- he blushes bright red even as he lies there.

And the fourth, and probably conclusive, uncomfortable thing is the loud screeching noise which reverberates through the house and provokes the bones in his skull to grind painfully against each other.

He sits up, drags his palm swiftly down his face, gathers the tangled loops of bandages under one arm, hauls himself out of bed and makes his wincing way to the bathroom.

He catches sight of his reflection whilst he is washing his hands, and for a full minute he stares blankly at himself in shock. He has not changed his clothes since he got shot, and it shows: they are crumpled beyond belief, and even though he knows they were washed at the hospital he can still see faint brown patches of faded bloodstains on his shirt. His hair is greasy and hangs raggedly across half his face, and his one visible eye is shadowed and grey.

However, it is not this that makes him wonder just how profound an effect it is possible for a tiny bullet to have on a body. It is the strange pallor to his skin, the washed-out paleness he sees in his whole body as he stands shrinking beneath the bright yellow light.

Even when compared to the pale tiles of the bathroom, he looks colourless.

In the end he turns his back on the mirror, feeling oddly unsettled by his own appearance, and concentrates his attention on the bandages, which by now are trailing down over his legs and onto the floor. Unbuttoning his shirt, he pulls the wrapping off and unravels them completely- allowing him to see, for the first time, the rough red surfaces of his partially healed wound- and then does his best to tie them up again from scratch.

The end result, if not professional, at least allows him to move freely, and does not fall down when he lifts his arms away. He is still, however, nowhere near presentable.

He wonders whether it would be worse to go downstairs in a bloodstained shirt, or to go downstairs in no shirt at all.

He opts for the blood. His fingers work stiffly on the buttons as he descends the stairs to be greeted by the grating noise, which starts up with renewed volume as soon as he reaches ground level.

It is almost like twisting metal, he thinks, or an especially noisy drill.

He knocks on the door behind which it seems to be originating, and almost immediately the noise dies away.

"Yes?"

He pushes the door open and sees her - _Winry; I'm supposed to call her Winry, aren't I?_ – sitting on the other side of the room. She turns as he enters, and looks over her shoulder at him.

His mouth drops open. He can't help it.

She is seated behind a workbench, on which he can see a large heavy-looking machine, a toolbox and a strange mechanical object that he can't see very well. She is holding a number of wires in one hand, and pushing a pair of goggles up her face with the other as she swivels around to face him.

This alone would be strange enough.

But the _clothes_ she is wearing: loose, pale lilac trousers with an absurd amount of pockets, a long piece of cloth serving as a headscarf, and-

Alfons does not know where to look. He has never seen a girl's navel before, and all of a sudden there is one right in front of him, on full, cheerful display. _Back in Munich_, the one small piece of his brain that is still functioning tells him, _they would be shocked._

He wonders whether there is a part of himself that is shocked.

"Ah!" Winry's face opens up into a smile. "Good morning!"

"G- Good morning," he manages, staring determinedly at the floor.

Confused, she gets up and moves over to him. "Is something wrong?"

"No-!" He looks wildly around the room for a distraction; his gaze lands on the workbench. "What- er- what's that?"

She follows his gaze. "That? That's my livelihood. I'm testing out a new design for my client."

He stares at her.

"Come and see!" she says excitedly, pulling him over to the bench; he goes willingly, and looks.

"What…"

"It's a work in progress," she says, lifting the strange object in her hands, "but one I'm quite proud of."

"A… metal arm?"

She stares at him for twenty seconds or longer, and then a look of abject horror comes over her as she says, "You… don't have automail… where you come from?"

Bewildered, he shakes his head.

"It's… a metal prosthetic," she says matter-of-factly, visibly trying to shake off her shock. "It connects directly to the nervous system, and by amplifying the signals still sent to the severed nerves, it is able to move."

"Oh!" he says. "Edward had something similar, actually. An arm and a leg. It didn't look anything like this, though."

"What did it look like?" Winry asks out of a professional interest.

"Just… different. It had a coating in some strange material designed to look like skin, but on the inside it was basic. Not much mobility, he told me. Nothing like as complex as this."

Winry beams. Encouraged, she continues, placing the limb back on the bench and angling the lamp onto it. "The earliest models had a very simple structure, really: only one plate here, so that the elbow could only bend to a right angle, at a stretch. Not so much use. Over time we've been experimenting, and have come up with this design. There's a very flexible material here, and at least three smaller plates on the outside. Usually modern automail can achieve 90 percent of flesh-and-blood mobility. There are still some limitations, especially in the shoulder and the hand- achieving real opposable thumbs was a nightmare- but it's a vast improvement.

"This plate," she says, fetching it and slotting it into place, "goes here, and bolts on either side of the wrist. It's designed to be easy to remove, so usually repairs are done via this panel. These slats help get rid of excess heat, although generally it's quite efficient. There can be some problems with waterproofing this area- as my poor dog knows- and it's that I'm working on now.

"Mostly it's the alloy I'm proud of in this model. The composition varies from piece to piece- according to personal preference and the lifestyle of the client- but I've discovered a blend which I believe could form the base for most models. It's very versatile, and by altering the ratio of components just slightly, it can be adjusted to-"

She breaks off suddenly; he turns to look at her, surprised. "What is it?"

"You're listening."

"Yes."

"Really listening."

"Of course."

"Normally when I talk about automail to people not in the business, they get annoyed or just humour me."

"Really?"

"Well, yes. Why the surprise?"

"Um…" He looks away, embarrassed again. "It's just… that's so rude."

She stares at him. "Rude… Yes! Yes, it is rude!

"Did you ever think Ed was a rude person?" she asks after a pause.

"Not exactly," Alfons says hesitantly. "At least, I don't think he really meant to be. He was very distant- even cold- and he didn't care what he said to people, but I don't think he was trying to be insulting. He was just… distracted."

She gives a humourless smirk, the corner of her mouth tugging up. "He used to be one of my clients. In fact, I gave him another set of automail before he went back into your world. He's one of the rudest people I know, in that respect. He never ever thanked me."

Alfons frowns with disapproval. "It's all right," Winry says quickly. "I was used to it. Anyway, it doesn't matter now."

"Maybe," Alfons says doubtfully. "But…"

He falls silent for a long time, gazing at the automail deep in thought.

"But what?" Winry prompts.

"I just think that I'd be grateful to someone who'd made me able to walk again," Alfons tells the workbench in a small voice.

Winry gazes at him, wide-eyed, for a long time, and is unable to keep the blush off her face.

* * *

_Author's notes: SURPRISE!!_


End file.
